By evening, Jerry had finished his classes and arrived at the Great Hall. Harry and the others were already seated at the long table, their faces solemn. Harry in particular had a shadow in his eyes. When Jerry approached, no one spoke, and an awkward silence settled over them.
"What's wrong with everyone? Wasn't Professor Moody's class interesting?" Jerry asked with a smile. They had just come from Defence Against the Dark Arts.
"Don't ask." Harry shook his head, unease in his voice. "I think Professor Moody was right, but..."
The Avada Kedavra curse Moody had used in class hung over Harry like a dark cloud. He could not shake it.
For the past three years, ever since Harry had learned what happened to his parents, he had found himself returning to that fateful night whenever all was quiet: Wormtail's betrayal had exposed their hiding place to Voldemort, and the Dark Lord had come for them.
Harry had reconstructed the tragedy countless times in his mind: his father, James Potter, bravely holding Voldemort off while calling for Lily to flee with baby Harry; Voldemort closing in on his mother, ignoring her desperate pleas as he sought to kill her child; and Lily offering her own life in exchange for Harry's, holding him close until her final moment.
Voldemort had taken Lily's life without mercy, then turned his cold gaze on Harry. Harry knew those details because, during his encounters with the Dementors last term, he had unexpectedly heard his parents' final words. Their voices had reached across time and struck the deepest part of him.
Dementors were hollow-faced monsters in black robes, possessed of a terrifying power. They could strip away a person's defenses and force their victim to relive the worst pain of their life, trapping them in despair